


Justin Case VS The World

by Rahn (Rahndom)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: ... that leads to love, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bucky has a new name, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, PTSD, and it's a stupid name, random happenstance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 02:57:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8186768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahndom/pseuds/Rahn
Summary: He wakes up without a name and without memories. Mr. Stark holds his hand and tells him everything is going to be okay, that he will take care of him. He believes him.





	

He woke up in an unfamiliar white room that smelled of disinfectant and decay at the same time, his head swam with a fog that seemed to cover his every thought.

He squinted against the unnatural white light and instantly knew he was nowhere familiar.

He wasn’t sure how or why he knew it, however, considering he couldn’t remember much else, but he knew he had never been in this place before.

“Oh, he’s awake!” a tiny young woman with bright pink and blue hair gasped, her hands coming to her chest as she stared at him in shock. “Doctor! Doctor come quick!”

He tried to say something, tried to move, but his body felt heavy and clumsy, his mouth full of cotton that prevented his tongue from separating from his dry palate, and the woman was leaving the room in a rush, her hands reaching for her phone and making a level of noise he didn’t feel comfortable with.

It didn’t take her very long to come back with an older looking man with turtle shell – rimmed glasses and silver peppered hair who kept poking and prodding at the machines surround him, his skin, his stump of an arm, his pulse… well, everything there was to him, really, oohing and aahing while he tried to keep him calm at the same time.

By talking to him…

… in french.

He wasn’t sure how he knew it was French or how he was sure he wouldn’t be able to reply to the man – the doctor – but he knew the language and he knew it wasn’t his native tongue, and so, without many other options, he decided to just stare and try to make sense of the babbling that was being thrown at him.

From what very little he could understand he had been in a car accident a few weeks prior, a piece of a flying race car had  jumped way off the racetracks during an accident – no, not an accident, an incident involving heroes and villains and… electrified whips, apparently -  and it had fallen on top of his own car, damaging the vehicle beyond recognition and killing all other occupants, having him as the only survivor, therefore, he had been moved to the Royal Imperial Hospital by Mr. Anthony Stark himself – a celebrity of some sorts? The name _did_ sound familiar - , who had been in the vicinity and was now his sole benefactor until his family could be contacted.

"I don't have a family," he whispered, frowning a bit when the doctor and colorful nurse stared at him in confusion.

He decided to try again.

"I have no family."

"Family is what you make of it, or so decades of Disney indoctrination say,” another voice, this one in a language he actually understood fully, said, pulling the attention of all in the room to the doorway.

A man was there, a man in a stylish black suit with a red shirt and matching tie, with neatly trimmed hair and a crooked smile that did little to hide the bloody gash that adorned the man’s cheek.

The nurse gasped.

The doctor raised an eyebrow.

“Mr. Stark!” he admonished, still in his frantic flourish of french. “I remember I told you to stay in your room until you could be properly seen to?”

“Bah,” Mr. Stark said back, waving a hand dismissively. “I heard that my friend here was awake and I really wanted to say hello?”

The doctor visibly fumed, the nurse stared, stars in her eyes.

He blinked once.

Twice.

“Hello?” he said hesitantly.

Mr. Stark’s eyes crinkled at the corners with obvious amusement.

“Hello,” he said back, making his way into the room and taking a comfortable seat on the only available chair. “I’m glad to see you are awake.”

"Thank you?" he replied, unsure.

The doctor and nurse eyed them with suspicion as they babbled at the other man now, pitying whispers of _'extensive neurological damage'_ and possible _'shock-induced trauma'_ and how the patient - that was **him**! - Most likely would be unstable for a while.

Mr. Stark looked at him with heartbreaking concern and unbearable guilt, before asking the doctor to please leave them alone for a few minutes alone with him to break the news and maybe clear some things with him in private.

And yeah, he wasn't sure what had happened to him, but even he found odd how both, doctor and nurse, seemed to melt at Mr. Stark's flirty smile and nodded to themselves as they left the room.

Huh...

"Great, I don't know how long those two are gonna give us," Mr. Stark said, his smile turning a little bit sadder, a little more hesitant. “So I’ll try to be as quick and as honest as possible, and then it will be all up to you.”

The man then proceeded to tell him about this race and how he was one of the racers, having the time of his life when an Angry Russian Dude of Doom ™ had appeared and so many were injured, so much destruction, but he had managed to subdue him, mainly because he was a _superhero_ and then he had heard that pieces of the wreckage had fallen onto the streets outside of the racing track and there was a survivor! Only one though and how horrible the accident had been, how all the other occupants of the truck had been mangled beyond recognition, how their bodies twisted in between pieces of an unknown machine.

“Me,” he interrupted, prompting Mr. Stark to nod. “And you are here because…”

“Because it’s my fault you got hurt and your companions were killed,” Mr. Stark said ardently. “I wouldn’t be able to sleep if I didn’t know you are well care for.”

The man looked at the lavish room and the multiple flower bouquets, the way everything seemed so clean and comfortable and purposefully arranged to make him as relaxed as possible.

He nodded.

“So I see,” he agreed, his hand splaying against the soft cotton sheets of his hospital bed, idly wondering if he had ever felt something like this against his skin before.

And doubting it.

Mr. Stark seemed to hesitate for a second.

“There is something else, though,” he said, his tone low, his usually boisterous body language muting itself. “Do you remember the people you were with, in the truck? What you were doing? Where you were going?”

The man shook his head, he knew there were men with him, he could still remember the echoes of their voices, harsh, cold, never talking to him, other than that.

Nothing.

He told Mr. Stark so.

Mr. Stark’s lips thinned.

“Look,” he said, eyes darting from one side to the other. “I know I shouldn’t say anything without further proof but… it seems to me the people you were with weren’t… nice?”

The man blinked, his head tilting to the side with confusion.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

Mr. Stark’s fingers seemed to touch his wrist hesitantly, like the wings of a butterfly against his skin. The callouses on the finger pads making him shiver with their gentleness.

“These scars of yours, they are recent and… they tell me you were being restrained and not by your request,” he elaborated, his voice a mere whisper. “The way your teeth are blunting means you were gagged a lot and… you tend to flinch, even in your sleep, when you are injected.”

Mr. Starks other hand rose to his chest, his fingers idly caressing at his sternum, his mouth curling with distaste.

The man thought about it, about the men and their voices and their hands.

“I don’t remember much,” he said finally, feeling a knot forming at the back of his throat. “But there was… pain, I think.”

Mr. Stark nodded, his eyes downcast.

“There are no records of you anywhere in the web, you know? It’s almost like you don’t exist,” he said, his eyes shifting to the side. “So, if you wanna…”

The man blinked.

“If I wanna…” he prompted.

“If you wanted to,” Mr. Stark clears his throat. “You could come and live with me, you know? While you recuperate and decided where you want to go next.”

The man thought about it for a moment, a part of him, the part of his mind not feeling encased in cotton seemed to turn, twist and suddenly he knew – _he knew_ – that the offer was not a normal one, that whatever Mr. Stark was offering was important and big.

He lowered his gaze to where Mr. Stark’s fingers where still touching his wrist.

“… I don’t want to be a charity case,” he mumbled, unsure of the words but finding strength in them as they left his lips. No, he didn’t want charity; he wanted to be his own man, to not depend on anyone.

Mr. Stark stared at him for a second or two, a moment that seemed to turn into minutes or hours.

He smiled.

“Not a problem,” he said with an awkward shrug of his shoulders. “Just say the word and I can get you a job at my company, not a problem. Hell, I can sign you on as my own bodyguard if needed, ya know? Just in case?”

The man’s eyes widened.

A bodyguard.

Someone to protect and car for someone else.

A purpose.

Yes, he liked that.

He nodded.

Mr. Stark’s smile turned a thousand times more relaxed, brighter, and almost childish.

“Wonderful,” he beamed, his whole frame releasing the tension the man had not noticed yet. “Make it so, JARVIS!”

“At once, Sir,” a soft voice called from inside Mr. Stark’s shirt pocket, making the man startle and he was sure Mr. Stark had an explanation at the tip of his tongue, something to sooth him, to make him calm again, but the Doctor was back now, his eyes narrowed, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared at them.

“Good news, doc!” Mr. Stark said happily, his french perfect and unaccented, almost musical. “Seems my friend here kinda, sorta, in a way remembers a little of his life!”

The doctor frowned, disbelieving.

“Does he?” he asked he asked back, unsure.

The man nodded.

“I’m one of Mr. Stark’s bodyguards,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “My name’s Justin.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

Mr. Stark’s lips thinned.

“Told you I knew our friend here,” Mr. Stark said after a pause, his eyes crinkling.

“Justin,” the doctor repeated, deadpan.

“Justin Case,” he said, reassuringly. “I’m an employee of Mr. Stark’s.”

Yes, he liked this new identity of his.

He had a name now, a person name. A name Mr. Stark _gave him_ without asking for anything in return.

It felt so right.

A purpose.

He was Justin now.

“And the vehicle you were in?” the doctor scowled, as he took the chart from the foot of his bed and started writing on it. “If you are Mr. Stark’s employee…”

“I was checking on shipment sent to Mr. Stark,” he said quickly, holding his head with his one hand and pretending to sway. “Or I think I was…”

The doctor rushed to his side, holding onto his shoulders to steady him.

“Don’t force yourself, Mr. Case!” he warned, his professionalism showing despite his misgivings.

From over the man’s shoulders, Justin saw Mr. Stark grin at him with pride, his hand covering his mouth to mute his chuckles.

“As you can see, Doctor Noel, Mr. Case can continue to recover back home in the States, where my doctors can monitor his progress and he can recuperate in an environment more familiar to him?” Mr. Stark said, his pose one of arrogance, the posture of a man used to being followed.

Justin found he liked this contradiction that was Mr. Stark.

Dr. Noel seemed to hesitate, his knowledge and his oath conflicting in his eyes.

“If you are willing to sign the papers, Mr. Case, we cannot be held responsible if your condition worsens during your trip, but we can’t hold you here against your will either.”

Justin stared at Mr. Stark in silence for a moment.

He nodded.

“I think I want to go home, Dr. Noel,” he whispered, his own smile small, shy. “Thank you.”

Justin – he was Justin now, he would be Justin and enjoy it – leaned back against his pillows, eyes set against Mr. Stark’s honey ones as he started to feel whatever painkiller he was supposed to be under, the day, the whole duration of his life maybe, seemed to catch up to him, because he closed his eyes as Dr. Noel started to call out to his nurses, demanding paperwork and diagnostics and all the chemicals Justin didn’t know or care the name for.

And he passed out with a small sigh, his body finally allowing him to relax.

The trip to the States – as Mr. Stark, called them – was silent and calm, more than Justin could ever imagine. The music was soft, the juice a delicious mix that tasted of actual, honest to god fruit – and to Justin that was important, that was unique and delicious and he swore he could cherish such taste forever – and Mr. Stark would sometimes hold his hand if he noticed it trembled too much, empathy in his eyes born out of shared experience.

He tightened his fingers against Mr. Stark’s.

This man, this sweet, wonderful, broken man wanted to help him, cared about him and his wellbeing.

This wonderful, wonderful man _touched him_ , and felt no disgust, no fear.

His calloused hands didn’t hurt him.

His voice was loud and soft at the same time

Musical in its enthusiasm.

Yes, he wanted to protect Mr. Stark.

He _would_ protect Mr. Stark.

He listened to Mr. Stark launch himself into a detailed explanation of what he would be expecting back home, of his virtual butler JARVIS and his friends Ms. Potts, Mr. Hogan and Mr. Rhodes, Justin found himself unable to hide a smile.

*******

Ms. Pepper Potts was a formidable woman, Justin though as he watched her pace back and forth on the luxurious office where he and Mr. Stark were currently sitting in.

She was fierce, determined, and the way her flaming hair framed her face as she argued made her look like an avenging angel.

She was beautiful.

“JUSTIN CASE!” she snapped, her cheeks coloring in her anger. “Seriously, Tony!”

“What was I supposed to do? Leave him there?” Mr. Stark growled back and Justin was forced to admit that while Ms. Potts was an impressive sight to see as she stood before them, she couldn’t hold a candle to the picture of Mr. Stark himself with his aged, broken, honey-colored eyes and still split lip, the way his hand – those calloused hands, the hands of a man that has clawed his way out of hell – would clench at his sides and his shoulders squared, how his nose would wrinkle with a heartbreaking mixture of fear, sadness and determination. “He was being tortured and god knows what, Pep! I couldn’t just walk away and pretend I didn’t notice!!”

Ms. Potts was an avenging angel, yes.

Mr. Stark was the sun.

“Tony, you stole an amnesiac man out of Monaco, for all intents and purposes you kidnapped him!” Ms. Potts continued, undaunted when Mr. Stark left his seat to stand face to face to her. “And don’t start with that ‘I found him and he followed me home’ thing! He’s a man, not a puppy, Tony!”

“I just wanted to save him, Pep!” Mr. Stark snapped, his whole body conveying there was no way in hell anyone was going to make him change his mind.

“Tony, I saw the files JARVIS found,” Ms. Potts sighed, pulling a tablet from her pocket and browsing through it, opting for diplomacy at the face of Mr. Stark’s unmovable will. “This man is Vladimir Wisniowski, currently studying piano at the Konservatorium in Vienna.”

A delicate flick of her wrist had dozens of small blue screens floating before them, each one as marvelous as the next, each displaying one of his records, his picture staring back at him from an Austrian driver’s license, a Russian passport, a student ID and several school records.

Even a birth certificate with his description was listed between the small blue screens, placing his birth in Moscow, 27 years ago.

Justin blinked, surprised.

Mr. Stark had not mentioned this before.

Then again, he frowned to himself, his fingers itching to touch the picture before him, familiarize himself with the face before him – the face that seemed so alien and different from the one that he saw in the bathroom mirror every morning as he brushed his teeth – this man, this Vladimir before him…

… was far more of a foreign concept than his own, a stranger with a life that everything inside of him was telling him was not his life.

He clenched his hand against the soft – so soft, so comfortable – denim of the jeans Mr. Stark had given him.

Mr. Stark scoffed loudly, his lips pulling downwards, making his face even less animated, less sweet to Justin.

“Those are a load of bullshit if I’ve ever seen one!” he said, waving a hand between the holograms.

“Oh, you think!” Ms. Potts scowled. “Pray tell me why?”

“I know!” Mr. Stark retorted, his hand now splaying his fingers between the documents, expanding them, making them move. “JARVIS found all of these because they have a picture. He was using his satellite facial recognition protocol.”

“So?” Ms. Potts said, her lips so thin they practically disappeared from her face.

“So, how come Jarv could find a stupid hospital report from ‘99 explaining that Justin lost an arm in a car crash,” Mr. Stark growled, his cheeks flushed, pausing if only for dramatic effect. “But he couldn’t find a single Facebook pic?”

Justin looked up at Mr. Stark, intrigued.

Facebook?

What was a Facebook?

Ms. Potts’ eyes widened, her shoulders slumping, her whole body falling back in shock.

“What?” she asked, her voice a faint mockery of her earlier power. “None?”

Mr. Stark relaxed, his posture one of triumph.

“None,” he said seriously. “No Facebook, no Twitter, not even Instagram.”

“But…” Ms. Potts’ brow furrowed. “He’s a 27 year old studying abroad.”

“My point exactly,” Mr. Stark nodded, his face a picture of perfect seriousness. “Please, Pep, trust me on this, wherever he came from is not a place anyone should return. We can’t just let him go back there.”

Ms. Potts turned to lock her wide, doe eyes with Justin’s, her earlier discomfort – her mistrust and outright hatred of him – completely gone and now replaced with a strange, almost transparent mix of shock, confusion and compassion.

The same way Mr. Stark had looked at him back in Monaco.

Justin lowered his face.

Ms. Potts nodded to herself.

“Mr. Case was hired last year in an effort by the board to keep you safe and out of the Iron Man suit,” she muttered to herself. “The contract was signed last spring and he’s been shadowing Happy ever since.”

A small, gratified smile graced Mr. Stark’s face.

“Thank you, Pep,” he whispered, his body almost plummeting back to his seat by Justin’s side, his warm hand resting on his knee.

Justin unconsciously leaned towards him.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Ms. Potts sighed, her gaze already back to her powerful, calculating coldness. “We still need to fill the holes in the story here, Tony. Yes, we have his contract and his employee ID, but what about background, where did he come from?”

Mr. Stark seemed to consider it for a moment.

“Good point,” he agreed, smiling up at Justin in that kind, patient way the other man was slowly growing accustomed to. “If you could choose a place of birth, anywhere in the world. Where would it be, JC?”

Justin blinked.

He hadn’t realized the choice would be his.

He frowned, staring around him at the same time as Ms. Potts pulled a map of the whole world into the little blue screens, the globe turning slowly, as if awaiting his indications.

He had once seen something similar, he was sure.

The globe – devoid of the bright colors of Ms. Potts’ globe – slowly turning as an assured male voice echoed in a small, crowded room. Him trying to keep as quiet as possible while he sneaked in from the back of the crowd, the air musty and stinking of body heat and sweat, a mesmerized voice that was as soft as a whisper, as weak as the summer breeze, commenting in awe what a wonderful world they lived in, what a time to be alive.

Him smiling down at that whisper, his knees protesting as he hauled a small boy – a weak boy, a boy with bird bones and a whistle in his lungs – over his shoulders, so he could see the screen too, so he could see the mouse and the duck and the cat and all the funnies that would follow the news.

He swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

“Brookly’n,” he said with a whisper. “Born an’ raised.”

He blinked, the globe before him stopping, the image expanding, beeping.

Mr. Stark and Ms. Potts were staring at him, their eyes wide.

“I…” he said, his shoulders tense. “I…”

“Not a word,” Mr. Stark said quickly, his fingers entwining with his own, his thumb a firm presence at the back of his hand. “You heard JC, JARVIS, he’s a Brooklyn boy.”

“At once, Sir,” the cultured voice of the AI replied, soothing. “Shall I integrate Mr. Case’s files into all the local government files?”

Mr. Stark stared at Justin, his face tense.

“Is that okay with you?” he asked, his tone cautious.

Justin shook his head.

“I… don’t know?” he replied honestly, unsure of himself.

Mr. Stark nodded.

“Do it as quietly as you can, Jar,” he commanded, never taking his gaze from Justin’s, his thumb caressing comforting  circles into Justin’s skin. “And make sure he at least has a twitter presence this time, buddy?”

“Will do, Sir, Mr. Case,” JARVIS agreed before falling silent.

“So, you really are an American,” Mr. Stark whispered in awe, his lips once more curling upwards encouragingly. “Who would have thought?”

Justin nodded, his muscles tensed, his breathing shallow. Torn between the gentle reassurance of Mr. Stark by his side, his patient encouragement, and the revelation of that small, almost dream-like image from his past.

*******

Every expert him and Mr. Stark had consulted on his particular case has told the two that remaining around familiar places and sights would eventually help Justin regain more and more memories as time went by…

… Justin, however, couldn’t shake the feeling he was doing something cruel.

Because Mr. Stark lived in California and was eager to go back home, but the moment they had realized Justin was a New Yorker, something cold and painful had seemed to pass over his eyes before a tired sigh escaped his lips and a small, broken smile curled his lips.

“Then we’ll stay here instead of Malibu,” he said, resolutely, pulling his phone from his pocket. “JARVIS, is the old house and lab in working order?”

And Justin wasn’t sure what Mr. Stark meant by ‘ _the old house’_ but it seemed to be something important, not only because JARVIS hesitated – he actually _hesitated,_ something he hadn’t thought the AI capable of – and the way Ms. Potts’ eyes widened, her manicured fingers covering her mouth in shock.

“… Indeed, Sir,” the AI assured. “Shall I restock the pantry and warn the caretakers of your arrival?”

And Mr. Stark’s smile had shrunk into something almost invisible.

“Sure thing, pal,” he said, his eyes downcast, his Adam’s apple bobbing twice as he swallowed. “Tell them to have some rooms ready too, freshen the beds and all.”

“Already done, Sir.”

And that was that.

Now he was sitting in the most confortable bed he had ever laid on, skin warmed by the sunlight currently filtering through white cotton curtains, his breathing as deep as he could manage, not because he wanted it to be, nor because he was relaxed in such a wonderful environment, but because Mr. Stark’s hands were carefully running over his shoulders, his exposed back, the nape of his neck, the scars and burn marks that seemed to litter his chest.

He suppressed another shiver.

“Am I hurting you?” Mr. Stark asked for what seemed to be the tenth time since he started examining him.

Justin shook his head, his eyes set on the lush gardens outside his window.

Mr. Stark had been nothing but kind and attentive, spending most of his free time – as little as it was -  either sitting down with him to chat, or making list after list of all the things he would ever need and providing him with all his necessities.

Even now, he was examining the strange metal socket attached to his shoulder where his arm should be, muttering to himself about sensors and circuitry and cursing whoever had put him through such torture, promising him over and over he would help him, he would do his very best to give him back as much sensation as he could.

How was Justin going to tell him that his touch – careful, tender, _warm –_ was something that he had come to crave in the days they had become acquainted? That from the fog that now was his memories he could tell he hadn’t being touched like that in such a long time and Mr. Stark was just so sweet and considerate.

The way he would usually raise both hands as he approached him, his whole body language screaming caution, harmlessness, care. How he would narrate each and every single one of his actions to Justin as he touched him, how he would make logic of his approaches, promising him safety, understanding.

How his hands spoke of damage – of pain – that matched his own somehow.

A pain that Mr. Stark did not have the luxury of having forgotten.

Sometimes Justin wanted to wrap himself around the millionaire, to breath into his skin and consume the heat of his skin, to bury his face into the genius’ hair and hide with him from the new-old world that was familiar and not at the same time.

To protect this wonderful person from whoever had hurt him, had made him see the cracks in Justin with a naked eye.

“JC?” Mr. Stark asked, his eyes wide. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry,” he hurried to say, his voice hoarse with disuse, hesitant. “I was… distracted?”

Mr. Stark nodded, patient.

“As I was saying, I think someone was experimenting with these,” he said, his fingers gently prodding at the metal piece against his shoulder blade, making Justin shudder in pleasure. “This is a really advanced piece for a mere prosthesis.”

Justin frowned.

“Which means…” he prompted, lost as usual with all the science and technology that seemed so natural for Mr. Stark.

Mr. Stark’s eyes crinkled in the same way they usually did when he was containing his mirth.

“Which means that if you give me a few days I should be able to work with this, give you back the arm?”

Justin’s eyes widened.

Mr. Stark took a step back.

“That is, only if you want to!” he said hurriedly, hands raised, nonthreatening. “I won’t touch a thing if you…”

“You’d really do that?” he interrupted, his voice dripping with awe. “You’d go out of you way to make something like that for me?”

Mr. Stark’s shoulders slumped in relief.

“Sure thing,” he said, shrugging nonchalantly.

Justin couldn’t contain the smile that stretched across his lips, the way his body seemed to gravitate towards Mr. Stark’s until his forehead was resting against Mr. Stark’s shoulder, his eyes closed in bliss when the older man did not push him away.

“Thank you…” he whispered, his throat tight as it usually was whenever he was around Mr. Stark and his brilliance. “Thank you so much.”

Mr. Stark stayed still for a moment, his shoulders tense, his breathing cut short, before he raised a comforting hand and ran it against the nape of Justin’s neck, his head knocking gently against Justin’s.

“Don’t mention it.”

*******

It takes Justin very little to realize Mr. Stark hates the mansion they are currently living in. At first it had seemed odd to Justin that Mr. Stark had not taken the master bedroom as he was the master of the house, preferring to sleep in one of the smaller rooms closer to the basement.

Mr. Stark had laughed out loud, explaining he had a lot of work to do and he would rather be near the workshop, in case he had to pull an all-nighter – which had actually been the case – but for what Justin had soon learned was Mr. Stark’s childhood home, the man seemed more than eager to revisit his memories of the place.

And he all but avoided the master suits in the west wing like the plague.

Justin had woken up that night - amidst screams and the fright and heartbreak reflected in the softest blue eyes he had ever seen as darkness and cold and pain enveloped him – feeling shaken and sweaty and thirsty, so he had clung to the familiar sounds of traffic outside the property, the lights that swallowed the city – so bright, too bright, brighter than they should be, his patchy memory screamed at him – and had made his way towards the kitchen, his feet silent in the thick hardwood flooring, his breathing evening as he drank in the cool night air and the knowledge that he was once more safe, protected, cared for.

Mr. JARVIS had been whispering when he finally reached the open kitchen, not to him, as he usually did when he had a nightmare, but to a small bundle of blankets and cold that was nestled under the kitchen isle, partially hidden by the wooden stools neatly arranged for a family breakfast that was no longer served – Mr. Stark preferred his meals in the ‘sun room’, while showing Justin movies and TV shows in vain hope to jog his memory – the marble counter spotless save for a few burn marks of times long past.

Feeling his curiosity get the better of him, Justin knelt before the blanket bundle, his eyes wide when he noticed Mr. Stark’s honey-colored eyes staring back at him from the shadows.

He opened his mouth, a question at the tip of his tongue.

But before he could utter a sound, Mr. Stark has sneaked a hand from his covers, his face turning into a picture of self-loathing that broke Justin’s heart as he laughed without humor and explained he had one of his common ‘eccentric attacks’ and that there was nothing to worry about.

But Justin had seen the panic, the pain and loss in Mr. Stark’s eyes in the mirror, reflected on his own face as he usually woke up by those memories he could no longer reach, so he simply decided to reciprocate the care he older man usually showered him with.

He resolutely pulled a stool away to make room under the counter for himself, his hands raised to reassure Mr. Stark he meant no harm as he crawled into the cramped space, instantly wrapping his arm around the man when his presence was not instantly rejected, and making the genius rest his tired frame against his naked chest.

Mr. Stark went along with him, his eyes wide, his face one of disbelief.

How come this person who gave everything so easily was so unaccustomed to receive care back, Justin wondered silently as he ran his fingers against Mr. Stark’s sweat soaked hair, breathing in his smell of machine oil and gun powder, of pineapple soap and man.

“J… C…?” Mr. Stark asked into the silence of the night, his voice a muted imitation of his usual candor.

Mr. Stark swallowed audibly, silencing Justin immediately.

The two of them fell silent, their breathings echoing in the unused room.

Justin felt Mr. Stark’s eyelashes – long eyelashes, curly, they made Mr. Stark’s eyes even more expressive, even more beautiful – fan the air and caress his neck, making him shudder.

Finally, out of nowhere, Mr. Stark parted his parched lips, took a deep breath, and started to speak.

He spoke softly, as if afraid to break the atmosphere that had fallen over the two of them. His voice never rising despite the horrors he soon started to reveal. He spoke of being four and been taken from his home – this home, this mausoleum of a house – and being held for ransom by people enamored with the Stark name, he spoke of his father’s cold response and of his Aunt Peggy’s – a name that rang true and familiar to Justin, for some reason – dashing rescue.

He spoke of being ten and once more being captured – this time from school, no less – and the desperation of knowing his godmother too far away to be of any help, as she had been retired and in Britain, too frail to function. He spoke of the men and their leers, of the way they said his name as if it was a dirty word, of their laughter and their breath against his skin at night, as they decided to have their fun while they awaited Howard Stark’s payoff.

He spoke of running in the middle of the night, of crawling on broken feet and a dislocated shoulder, of stiff skin against the biting snow of December as he bit his tongue to keep himself awake, of muttering to himself until his teeth stopped chattering and finally of collapsing in a heap of frozen blood and unresponsive limbs in the nearest gas station, of being recognized and taken to a hospital where his mother and Jarvis – their one time butler, the man he considered more of a father than the man who had actually sired him, JARVIS’ namesake – coming to see him, staying by his side as he recuperated.

Finally, Mr. Stark spoke of Afghanistan.

He told Justin of the Ten Rings and their screams, of the water and the steel, of the biting cold of the cave and the deafening silence of his imprisonment. He spoke of waking up in an operating table, his chest wide open and bleeding into the sand as metal and wire were sown onto his skin.  Of knowing that, this time, the hell was one of his own making, that the weapons that had made him fall had been made by his own hands. He spoke of crying like he had not cried at age four, at age ten, because this time he was surely going to die.

But then he told the younger man of Yinsen – _Yinsen_ who taught him how to _speak_ , how to _move_ , how to appear less of a wounded animal and more as a man once more - , of the gentle way the man touched him, of the soft tenor of his voice, of the hopelessness in his tired, aged eyes.

He spoke of the determination burning inside of him like a star going supernova, of rising from the ashes of his own sins like a phoenix being reborn, amidst flames and smoke and screams of an agony he could no longer feel.

Of leaving kind, sweet, _helpless_ Yinsen behind.

He spoke of the scorching sun against his back as he limped, broken legs and broken fingers once again, of wrapping himself in his tattered clothing and letting his parched throat – so dry, so very thirsty, so very torn and broken – whisper pleas to gods he no longer believed in, of knowing for certain this time he would fall, like Aunt Peggy and like Jarvis, like his beloved mother and cold father only to be pulled back into the land of the living by his Rhodey – his most dearest and oldest friend, the brother he had always dreamed of – who descended upon him from the skies like an angel.

By the time he was finished, Mr. Stark’s body had started to shake, his hands curled defensively over the glowing arc reactor – Mr. Stark’s heart, mechanical and bright and as wonderful and miraculous as the man himself – his eyes dull like a child’s.

Justin just wrapped his arm tighter around him, willing the pain and the hurt and everything that had ever hurt Mr. Stark to disappear, that he could erase with his mere presence all the stains of the past and sooth the hurt.

He swallowed thickly instead.

“I dream of snow, mostly,” he confessed, feeling himself in need to reciprocate Mr. Stark’s confidence. “It’s so cold and so empty, the pain slowly subsides and I am alone, and the canyon echoes with the heartbreaking sobs of someone I know I won’t see again, someone I’m leaving behind…”

Mr. Stark remained respectfully silent; his eyes focused on Justin’s, his full attention centered on the other man’s voice.

“Sometimes men are around me, they laugh and they talk amongst themselves, they have needles and pain and fire,” he continued, his voice trembling. “And there is lightning and cold, so very cold.”

Mr. Stark nodded, still silent, his own arms wrapping around Justin’s shoulders, pulling the blankets around him, as if to protect him from the memories, of the pain.

He closed his eyes, grateful.

They would greet the new dawn in eachother’s arms, still hidden under the kitchen island, still protecting the other from their old demons.

It would not be the last time they sought the other when nightmares struck.

*******

Mr. Stark started working in earnest since that very first night, measuring and muttering to himself and reading on his ‘stark pad’ even during meals and what he called ‘acclimation time’ which was mostly the two of them – or sometimes Ms. Potts would join them as well, which was becoming normal as Mr. Stark refused to leave the house unless coerced – to watch a movie, or a television show or even the news.

Justin was starting to worry about the single-minded dedication Mr. Stark was showing towards this new project of his.

Justin’s new arm.

“I know you are eager to finish the prototype, Tony,” Ms. Potts would say, her fork halfway to her mouth as they ate. “But you need to rest from time to time.”

Mr. Stark would then scoff, his cheek stained with whatever sauce his meal of the day had – Justin was quickly learning Mr. Stark did not appreciate dry food if he could help it – and then take a big gulp from his drink.

“I’ll rest when I’m dead, Pep!” he would reply, shaking his head with fondness.

Justin sighed to himself and allowed Mr. Stark to attach a new socket into his shoulder, silently enjoying Mr. Stark’s fingers on his scars, and the way he would stop every minute or so to ask whether he was in any pain.

“I’m fine,” he would whisper, his smile small.

Mr. Stark would nod, his own eyes relieved.

Ms. Potts snorted in the background, that particular evening, her smile full of regrets and longing and infinite fondness. She turned momentarily to talk to her PA, another redhead who had, until then remained completely silent and at ease, her eyes slowly roaming the room as if trying to devour it, analyze every nook and cranny as if to commit it to memory.

She put Justin on edge by her mere presence.

But he couldn’t actually pay much attention to her, since Mr. Stark was scolding himself over and over, quickly sliding the socket off and banging at it with a screwdriver.

Ms. Potts scolded him for his language, her hands at her hips.

Mr. Stark stuck his tongue out at her and then laughed out loud, patting Justin’s shoulder and slowly walking towards his workshop.

The petite redhead called out to him then, her hips swaying seductively as she approached him with a stack of papers held in her arms, her stilettos making no sound on the marble floor as she walked.

Justin’s shoulders tensed.

“Mr. Stark,” she said primly, her smile a curl of lips artistically painted to make them bigger, juicier.

Lips painted Iron Man red.

Mr. Stark, on his part, absently nodded at her, checking the documents she was putting in front of his face and reaching behind his ear for a pen -, a simple dollar bin pen with which he had been sketching over Justin’s left side a few minutes ago, - placing his signature over each sheet of paper with the absent minded precision Justin has come to associate with Mr. Stark’s tedium, completely ignoring the woman as he muttered calculations and alloys to himself under his breath.

Ms. Potts’ PA did not seem to be satisfied by Mr. Stark’s inattention, her lips curling downwards in such a small way he was sure nor Mr. Stark nor Ms. Potts had noticed the other woman’s attempts at seduction. With new determination, the smile went back into the woman’s face, her shoulders forcibly relaxing, her eyes growing hooded, bright.

“There’s something in your hair, Mr. Stark,” she said with an almost purr, her fingers slowly reaching for Mr. Stark’s skin, for the nape of the man’s neck.

Justin acted before he could think.

He reached with his hand towards them, his own voice loud yet unable to register through the deafening roar of his blood pumping beneath his skin.

Mr. Stark took a step back, shocked, his lips parting to utter his name but no word coming out as the redhead’s eyes narrowed, her whole frame became tense herself and she evaded his outstretched hand expertly, his fingers barely brushing against her curls but unable to grasp a single strand.

She crouched low, her leg spread to trip him, but he had seen this tactic used a million times, it never worked with someone like him as he simply mimicked her posture, his own leg coming to intercept her own, forcing her to lose her balance if only for a second.

The woman reached back, her hands catching her on the floor before she could fall completely, her heel reaching forwards to stab him its, now he could notice, steel-reinforced sole which he stopped with his own, naked hand…

… and quickly block with his elbow when the woman threw her second shoe at him, this time aiming for his eyes.

He felt the heel stab him but it didn’t matter, the woman was already moving at top speed, her hands reaching into the pockets of her stylish pant-suit and nothing else mattered to Justin.

This woman was dangerous, every fiber of his being told him, this woman was a killer, a monster that lured her victims with her talents and her beauty.

She was a monster and a danger…

… and she had tried to touch Mr. Stark without his permission.

Justin would never forgive her.

He roared something unintelligible when she performed an artful somersault over his head, graceful like a ballerina, wrapping her thighs against his neck, but he already had a hold of her arm and was pulling with all his strength before she even had a second to pull him under.

He gave a pull, as maddened and desperate as her grip on him felt.

She cried out in pain.

He felt stars go over his eyes.

His knees folded over their collective weight, crashing into the marble.

A shot rang through the air stilling them both.

And then the woman fell to the floor, unconscious.

Justin blinked, shocked.

Mr. Stark stood over them both, his eyes wide with worry, his breathing ragged.

A small pistol held in his trembling hand.

“Are you okay?” he asked as his fingers grew lax and let the gun fall onto the floor with a clatter. “J.C. are you okay?”

Justin felt tears roll down his cheeks.

He nodded.

“She…” he panted, his hand caressing his bruised neck. “She’s dangerous…”

Ms. Potts was checking over the unconscious body of the woman, slowly removing the dart that had finally put her under, the one Mr. Stark had shot her with.

He shot _her,_ not him.

Was worried about his safety, not _hers._

“Do you… know her?” Mr. Stark asked, crouching by his side, his fingers checking on the bruising. “Is this a memory of yours?”

Justin stared into Mr. Stark’s eyes for a moment, centering himself in the color of them, the softness and familiarity of their kindness.

He nodded.

“She’s an assassin,” he said, his voice gaining certainty. “I… I know her kind.”

Mr. Stark nodded, looking up.

“JARVIS?” he said.

“On it, Sir,” the AI responded immediately, its voice bringing the whole household comfort.

“Tony…” Ms. Potts whispered, shaken, as she stared at them both. And Justin couldn’t blame her. For all intents and purposes _he_ had attacked her PA out of nowhere. He had reacted to the woman without any apparent reason and she had only tried to defend herself.

It looked horrible from any outsider’s perspective.

But Mr. Stark himself had reacted quickly, no doubt in his movements, no hesitation to protect him.

Mr. Stark, even now, believed in him.

“Pep,” he said, locking his gaze with hers, determination and confidence pouring out of him in waves.

A moment passed between them in silence, stretched into eternity to Justin.

A language that was customary to them both.

Ms. Potts nodded, her shoulders slumping as she secured the woman’s hands behind her back with her belt and started rummaging through her pockets, her ripped blouse.

Mr. Stark nodded at her in relief.

Justin let his forehead rest on Mr. Stark’s shoulder, breathing in his scent.

“We’ll need that arm sooner than expected,” Mr. Stark whispered, running the fingers of his left hand through Justin’s long hair comfortingly.

“Sir,” JARVIS called, his voice small in the immensity of the room. “I think I might have found something.”

One of the screens littering the sun room lit up, displaying document after document, most blackened with age and secrecy, all marked confidential with enormous, red lettering.

“Natalia Alianova Romanova,” Mr. Stark read outloud, his frown deepening. “Is she KGB, JARVIS?”

“KGB?” Ms. Potts said in shock, her search gaining determination, her fingers growing steady.

“No, Sir,” JARVIS replied. “She apparently migrated to the United States a few years ago, but most of this documents pin her as…”

“Tony,” Ms. Potts called, her hands pulling a small holographic card from the woman’s wallet, her eyes wide and showing the pin inside of it, the eagle clear against the white of the plastic.

“SHIELD,” Mr. Stark growled, his eyes narrowing, his lips pulling back in a snarl. “She’s fucking SHIELD. Fury planted a fucking SHIELD agent on SI!”

“SHIELD?” Justin asked, confused. The name did sound familiar in a vague way that reminded him from the memories he sometimes recovered from his dreams.

It was JARVIS who replied, this time, pulling file after file onto the screen for Justin’s perusal. Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, a spy agency based on the country to, as they promised, maintain stability and enforce world security.

An underground operation bent on keeping order, it said.

Yet they sent a spy to work for Ms. Potts.

A spy that, had she arrived a few months earlier, would have worked directly under Mr. Stark.

A spy that everything in Justin knew was also a trained assassin, a killer in disguise.

He scowled.

No wonder Mr. Stark didn’t seem to like this SHIELD.

“JARVIS, call security and have them escort Miss Romanova out of the premises,” Mr. Stark growled, his hands clenched tightly into fists.

“At once, sir,” JARVIS assured, his voice going cold to mirror its master’s. The AI was obviously not pleased that someone had escaped his notice and could have potentially hurt his charges.

“Oh, and JARVIS?” Ms. Potts called as she dusted her expensive dress. “Please forward to Miss Romanova her Notice of Termination effective immediately? And a warning that she or her acquaintances are no longer welcomed in SI property?”

Ms. Potts and Mr. Stark shared a conspiratory grin.

The AI once more gave his assent before falling silent.

Mr. Stark started talking once more of metal alloys and the parts he would have to have shipped from the lab in Malibu because Justin’s arm was no longer something that could be put behind, while Ms. Potts nodded to herself, her confidence in Mr. Stark’s judgment of character clear in her eyes as she helped him to his feet, Mr. Stark already disappearing to the workshop.

She sighed.

“We’d better make sure he eats while he’s in there,” she said, half to herself and half to Justin. “So, are you in the mood for Chinese, Mr. Case?”

He blinked, confused.

“We had Chinese yesterday?” he replied as she wound her arm around his, her whole body conveying her exhaustion.

He steadied her as best as he could.

She nodded, grateful.

“Then I believe tonight is the night we introduce you to the wonders of Indian food, I hope you don’t mind spices?” she said, bumping her shoulder with his arm.

He nodded again - less of an agreement than a way to reply while unsure what to do with a woman who had been shaken to the core yet bouncing from her own fright by sheer force of will - and watched as she placed the order on the phone and sat down on one of the ruined chairs to await security, her eyes set on Miss Romanova’s still unconscious form with viciousness.

As if daring her to move before she was out of the property.

Justin decided he really, really liked Ms. Potts.

*******

True to his word, Mr. Stark finished the new arm three days after the incident with Miss Romanova, laughing when Justin refused skin-like latex covering for the metal. He wanted, deep down, to show off the wonderful gift Mr. Stark had done for him.

He wanted the whole world to recognize Mr. Stark’s genius.

“Is the weight okay?” Mr. Stark asked fondly, his fingers wrapped around a coffee cup as he watched him move.

“It’s perfect,” Justin whispered in awe, moving the arm back and forth, enjoying the electrical whirr of the elbow as it turned. “It feels like it’s real…”

Mr. Stark nodded, hand patting his naked shoulder softly.

“I wanted to give your some sensitivity back, but we _were_ a little pressed for time so…” he trailed off.

“I don’t mind,” Justin said with a small smile. “Maybe some other day?”

Mr. Stark’s face twisted with fond melancholy.

“Sure thing,” he said, standing from his perch by the newly furnished sun room. “Some other day.”

Justin frowned at him, unsure.

“You need to rest a little, Mr. Stark,” he said, concern evident in his voice as he noticed the way the bags that constantly hung under Mr. Stark’s eyes were darker than usual, that the way he usually held himself so effortlessly now showed his tiredness, as if his frame weighted far too much for his own strength. “And if you tell me that you will rest when you are dead I am to inform you I’ve been authorized by Ms. Potts to physically restrain you onto the bed and force you to sleep.”

Mr. Stark looked at him for a moment, a thousand rapid-fire thoughts flying over his eyes as he seemed to study him.

After a while, he nodded.

“Kinky,” he joked, shaking his head. “I guess you are right, J.C. I should probably go to bed.”

Justin nodded, his arms – both of them, he now had _two_ arms! – crossed over his chest.

“You should,” he assured, his voice deadpan.

Mr. Stark laughed, running a hand through his hair.

“Careful, buddy,” he said as he waved, walking towards the guestroom Justin had started associating as Mr. Stark’s. “More sass and you’ll turn into JARVIS.”

“While I appreciate the comparison, Sir,” JARVIS interrupted from a speaker in the ceiling. “I must say I am quite younger than Mr. Case.”

Justin’s eyes crinkled as he turned his head upwards to the cameras in the sunroom’s ceiling.

“But I’m cuter,” he argued back. He liked arguing back and forth with JARVIS, he was witty and nice and it was obvious the two of them had the same objective in mind, namely Mr. Stark’s safety.

They understood eachother.

The two of them were rewarded for their efforts by the echo of Mr. Stark’s laughter ringing through the halls of the mansion.

Justin grinned to himself and sent one of JARVIS’s cameras a thumb’s up with his brand new hand.

With a sigh of half happiness, half tiredness, he sat down in his favorite chair by the window. Mentally wondering what he was going to order for dinner once Mr. Stark woke up. That or he could final attempt to cook something, now that he had both limbs he was sure he could _try_ to cook and the results wouldn’t be all… that bad? He was sure he had once cooked a meal for someone dear. Mostly the heartiest meals he could come up with, something to warm the belly and sooth aching bones.

He was finding more and more things about himself as time went by.

If anything, the encounter with the dangerous Natalia Romanova  - the one Ms. Potts still called Natalie and Mr. Stark refused to call by any other name than a scoffed _‘Widow’_ – had opened a flood gate of images and memories inside his weakened brain. Most, if not all of them, horrible images, nightmares that left him soaking in sweat and shaking, memories of blood and screams, of people kneeling before him, pleading for their lives as he watched life fade from their eyes.

He had known Romanova was a monster because he, apparently, was one himself.

A killer with countless victims staining his hands with their blood.

He closed his eyes.

Still, there were better images floating before his eyes if he concentrated hard enough.

The feeling of a smaller, paler, cold hand resting against his own, of using his strength to protect someone infinitely precious, someone so fragile and important that life itself seemed to orbit around that person’s happiness.

Although, most of those memories, the ones with the important, _essential_ person he had sworn to protect, were tinged with the bittersweet feeling of loss, of uselessness.

Whoever he had orbited around once, whoever he had devoted his life to before had, at one point during his life, found strength and power.

And Justin was no longer needed.

No longer as essential to that person as that person was to Justin.

He couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to that person after the memories stopped, whether that person was happy wherever they were.

If they had found their happiness far away from Justin.

He allowed himself another small, silent sigh.

“Tony? Are you there?” A voice called, pulling Justin from his thoughts and forcing him to his feet, muscles tense as a man walked into the room, chocolate brown eyes widening when they met Justin’s pale gaze.

The man eyed Justin from head to toe for a second, his own muscled body tensing in response to Justin’s presence, his pose changing from one of relaxed curiosity to one of menace.

His brows furrowed in a frown.

“Who are you?” the man asked, the hand holding onto the straps of a small duffle bag tightening against the cloth, as if aching for something else.

Justin stared, confused.

“My name is Justin Case,” he replied. “I’m Mr. Stark’s new bodyguard.”

The duffle bag fell to the floor with a soft thud, the man’s pose never releasing its tension as he finally made his way into the room, his face betraying clearly what he thought of Justin’s appearance, his presence.

Then, those inquisitive eyes fell on his new arm… and narrowed.

“Right,” he scoffed, arms crossing over his chest, shoulders squaring. “I see Tony has been busy.”

 _Military_ , a voice Justin could vaguely recognize as his own whispered inside his head. _Armed, trained, dangerous._

“Mr. Stark just went to bed,” he replied, his voice even despite how disconcerted he felt. This man called Mr. Stark by name, but considering all the people Ms. Potts had warned Justin took liberties with Mr. Stark and his public persona, that could mean nothing, the man could still be a threat.

The man raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Is that true, JARVIS?” the man asked with mock casualness.

“Indeed, Colonel Rhodes,” the AI replied instantly, easing Justin’s nerves. If JARVIS knew who this man was, and still allowed him free entry into the house, he was definitely not a threat to Mr. Stark’s safety. “Sir has been working nonstop for the last few days and decided to go to bed after Mr. Case insisted.”

The man, Colonel Rhodes – Justin had been right in his assessment of military training, the notion both reassuring him and frightening him equally – simply rolled his eyes with what seemed to Justin like fond exasperation mixed with a small portion of worry.

This man knew Mr. Stark’s habits well, then.

A close acquaintance?

The man leaned against the wall casually, despite the way his eyes continued to trail Justin’s every movement, how his pose keep being threatening.

Justin frowned.

“I guess that’s okay,” Colonel Rhodes sighed, his lips pursing. “I wanted to talk to you before I talked to Tony.”

Justin blinked, surprised.

“About what?” he asked, unsure.

Colonel Rhodes sighed again, eyes finally straying towards the open window and the carefully manicured gardens outside the house.

“I met Tony when he was 14, you know?” Colonel Rhodes said as a non sequitur, his voice even and harsh at the same time. “When the Professors told me I was supposed to room with him I thought they were dumping him into my lap for me to babysit, I hated the kid on sight.”

Justin sat back down on his chair, suddenly feeling the weight of his body before unbearable, needing the warmth of the sun against his skin.

“But then the more time I spent with him, the more I got to know him, I realized Tony was a good boy, the kind of kid that can’t rest until all the people around him are well taken care of,” Colonel Rhodes continued, as if unaware of Justin’s turmoil. “The kind of kid people gravitate towards… for good or for ill, ya know?”

A shiver ran down Justin’s back.

His lips parted.

Colonel Rhodes raised a hand, stilling him.

“I’ve seen people approach Tony with sickeningly sweet smiles, I see the take what he has to offer,” the man continued, undaunted. “I’ve seen people hurt Tony, take advantage of his kindness.”

Those steel eyes of the Colonel’s pierced Justin where he sat, cold like ice, brighter than the sun.

“And I don’t like it.”

Justin stared, his eyes wide, his limbs losing their rigidness prey to the intensity of Colonel Rhodes’ gaze.

“Colonel…” he began. “I…”

“When Pepper told me what had happened I really wanted to believe you were a good guy, you know? That you were really this poor amnesiac in need of help,” the man interrupted, his whole demeanor growing colder and intense by the second. “But then she called me and told me about how you jumped a SHIELD spy, the Black Widow herself, because she was getting too close to Tony. She was so happy with you, so grateful you were there and I wanted to be happy too, you know? I wanted to feel relief knowing someone else had Tony’s best interests at heart, but I can’t.”

Justin shook his head, eyes wide.

“I…”

“I can’t be all happy and dandy when a Russian guy with amnesia happens to pop out of  nowhere the same day Ivan _fucking_ Vanko tries to kill my best friend. A man trained in combat to the point he can take down one of SHIELD’s best and brightest? Don’t make me laugh,” the Colonel continued, his lips pulling back into a snarl. “So I’m gonna ask you again, just who the fuck are you?”

By now Justin’s whole body was trembling, the vibration creating a soft hum as the metallic plates of his new arm shook against one another, his body felt cold, ice cold, the sun not able to provide the soothing relief it usually offered him.

This man, this Colonel Rhodes person, could be no other than Mr. Stark’s beloved Rhodey he had heard so much about, the man that was a brother in everything but blood to Mr. Stark – something in the back of his head told him that kind of bond was crucial, unbreakable. That he had been a brother in all but blood too, once, a lifetime ago. – and that this man had rushed from wherever he was before to see him, to make sure he was not going to be a threat to Mr. Stark’s safety.

And Justin, unsure, unstable an amnesiac Justin, couldn’t say for sure he wasn’t.

His arrival was just too perfect, too coincidental.

A Russian fails in an attempt to assassinate Mr. Stark, another magically appears out of thin air just begging for assistance?

Could Justin honestly say he was not someone planted to hurt Mr. Stark?

Justin felt his nails break the skin of his palm with the strength he was clenching his hands, how something wet slid down his cheek.

Colonel Rhodes’ eyes widened then, his muscles relaxing partly due to shock.

Justin realized he was crying.

“I…” he tried to articulate.

Articulate what?

He wasn’t sure.

“J.C.?” Mr. Stark called from the hallway, his voice soft, cautious as he made his way into the sunroom. “Rhodey? What the hell?”

“Tony,” Colonel Rhodes said, his face full of determination.

But Mr. Stark only had eyes for the shivering figure by the window, his own face a picture of concern, of compassion.

Justin couldn’t take it.

Without a single word Justin found himself on his feet, rushing out of the window and into the summer sun, desperate to put as much distance between himself and the wonderful, warm, miraculous Mr. Stark.

“JUSTIN!” Mr. Stark’s voice called from the distance, growing fainter the faster he ran. “JUSTIN WAIT!”

But Justin couldn’t stop, couldn’t stand Colonel Rhodes’ accusing, mistrustful gaze and Mr. Stark’s worry.

He just kept running.

Surprisingly, it was not Mr. Stark who found him two days later when his limbs finally gave out on him, when his knees hit the ground and his muscles screamed in agony and he plummeted to the ground under the weight of his own body.

It was not Colonel Rhodes either, surprisingly.

Natalia Romanova approached him on silent feet, the expensive looking three piece suit she usually wore around Mr. Stark was now replaced with a black kevlar body suit that molded to her muscled frame, the pistol in her hands was taunt, aimed at his head.

Unable to move, almost unable to breath from exhaustion, he looked into her eyes, seeing her determination reflect Colonel Rhodes.

He closed his eyes, waiting.

“Agent Romanov,” a man called from behind her, his voice commanding, loud to Justin’s ears despite the blood pumping inside his skull. “Stand down.”

“Sir,” Romanova said hesitantly, her posture never failing.

A tall man walked to the woman’s side, his one eye examining Justin like one would a strange creature, a worm.

“Mr. Case,” the man greeted, his posture commanding attention.

“Sh- SHIELD,” Justin rasped, surprised.

The man raised an eyebrow.

“I’m guessing Mr. Stark filled you on us?” he asked conversationally, as if he was discussing the weather. “Is he around?”

Justin simply shook his head.

“What do you know…” the man said then, his one visible eye widening. “He’s back in New York? Alone?”

Justin’s forehead touched the ground, yet he remained silent.

“It appears he had an altercation with Colonel Rhodes,” Romanova hissed, her eyes set on her phone. “Rhodes ran away with one of the Iron Man suits.”

“He what?” the man snapped, a vein popping on his forehead demonstrating his anger. “Damn Stark, you stupid brat.”

Justin managed to muster enough strength to raise his face, glaring at the man.

The man glared right back at him, unmoved.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he hissed. “I am surprised you decided to leave Stark alone, given his condition.”

Justin’s breathing hitched, the man ignored him, turning to the redhead still pointing her gun at him.

“Romanov, call a car, we’ll need to go to Stark Manor then before the fool falls dead,” he commanded, his hand on his wrist as he adjusted a device and started dragging his finger over ta small screen. “We don’t have much time.”

“Yes, Sir,” the woman nodded, pulling her phone from Justin didn’t know where.

“What… do you mean…” Justin gasped, pulling himself to his feet by sheer force of will. “… by dead?”

The man continued to look at him, making Justin feel exposed, vulnerable.

He found himself hating the man.

“Stark didn’t tell you?” the man asked, an eyebrow raised. “Of course he didn’t. The man is a walking, talking martyr.”

A black, windowless van pulled in front of them, an older looking man in a grey suit watching the three of them carefully from the driver’s seat.

“Let’s go, Romanov,” the man commanded once more, turning to walk towards the vehicle, his long, black coat fluttering in the wind as he did so.

He stopped only when Justin’s metal arm – Mr. Stark’s arm – latched onto the leather.

Romanova’s gun clicked against Justin’s temple.

The man’s eye met his own.

“What condition…” Justin demanded once more, his brows furrowing, his lips taunt. “What’s wrong with Mr. Stark?”

The man stared at him, his gaze calculating, unafraid.

“Stand back, Agent Romanov,” he ordered, his voice even.

The woman hesitated for a moment, her body language clearly conveying her doubt.

After a moment of silence, however, she lowered her hands, her pistol disappearing once more in her skin tight outfit.

“I think you should come with us, Mr. Case,” the man said then, his lips curling into a mocking smile. “I’m sure we can talk on the way.”

Justin nodded, releasing the man’s coat.

***

Justin found himself running once more, a few hours later as he made his way into the Manor that had been his home for the last month.

Mr. Stark was dying.

He couldn’t believe it.

All this time he had been living with the man, spending time in his company, _sleeping in his bed_ when the nightmares became too much…

… and he hadn’t noticed a thing.

He hadn’t noticed that with every smile, every gesture, every touch, Mr. Stark had been dying.

That the careful way his lips pursed whenever Ms. Potts scolded him on his sleeping habits, his food intake, the way he would work and work and hardly ever stop…

Justin shook his head.

No.

He couldn’t - _wouldn’t -_ let it happen.

Romanova was following close behind him, her eyes searching on every corner they passed, looking for Mr. Stark, but Justin knew immediately where the man was, without even having to ask JARVIS – who had helpfully opened the door for him the moment he had set foot on the property – oh, no. Justin had come to know Mr. Stark better than he knew himself.

Without measuring his own strength, he pushed the door to the kitchen open until the wood fell to the ground, uncaring of the mess and the noise he continued on his way, falling to his knees under the kitchen island and ducking against the marble counter he reached, hands outstretched, for the small bundle of blankets and safety.

His own personal heaven so close.

Mr. Stark stared at him in shock, his eyes wide, his mouth slightly parted, lips parched, skin sallow.

“J… C…?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper, and Justin found himself whimpering as he stared at the angry black veins slowly pulsing on Mr. Stark’s face, the way they spread their poison inside the man that had come to mean the world to him, how they marked his vulnerability, his fragility. “What are you…”

Justin didn’t even let him finish, he quickly wrapped both arms around the man’s back as he used to do after a nightmare, pulling the man against him and, without any thought of future consequences, he finally succumbed to the.

With desperation born out of his frayed nerves Justin crushed Mr. Stark’s lips against his own, his fingers reaching to run through the short, sweat soaked hairs at the nape of the other man’s neck, his tongue tasting the gasp of shock Mr. Stark emitted as he finally registered what was happening around him, as Justin finally unleashed all the pent up frustration, all the desire and the passion he had been keeping hidden all this time, even from himself.

Mr. Stark still smelled like himself, of sweat and oil and man, his frame was still small compared with his own, yet as powerful as a mountain, as beautiful as a work of art.

Mr. Stark’s own hand hesitantly rested on Justin’s arm, his trembling fingers slowly tightening against his shirt, pulling him impossibly closer.

Justin finally allowed himself to relax, to relish this moment in which the man he had come to love was so close, connected in such an intimate way.

But such passion was not to be as Mr. Stark separated from him with a yelp, his eyes wide, his lips bruised.

Romanov stood before them, an empty syringe held between her elegant fingers.

“What the-“ Mr. Stark asked, his hand releasing Justin’s shirt to rub soothingly at his neck. “Rushman?”

“What did you do to him?” Justin roared, his eyes narrowed, his hands ready to snap the woman’s neck.

“What did she do _for_ him,” Fury corrected, entering the kitchen. “That’s Lithium Dioxide, it’s supposed to help with the palladium.”

Mr. Stark scowled.

“Fury, how did you know about the…” he said, his gaze travelling towards Romanov. “Really?”

Fury shook his head, to all the world appearing like a hardened soldier, an ice sculpture forged by a master, yet, to Justin’s trained eye, the eyes of a killer, it was clear the other man held the same degree of fondness for Mr. Stark that Ms. Potts had, and wasn’t that an unusual discovery?

Justin’s shoulders relaxed under such revelation.

It seemed Mr. Stark could capture the hearts of all of those who actually knew him.

Justin watched with pride as Mr. Stark quickly regained color, how the angry lines of poison on his face slowly receded towards the glowing arc reactor in his chest – and wasn’t it ironic that the thing that had brought Justin so much comfort whenever he found himself frightened at night, was the one thing that was killing his gentle benefactor? – how the man’s eyes grew bright once more, his breathing even.

He watched as Fury and Mr. Stark continued to argue back and forth, as the Director used all weapons in his arsenal to convince Mr. Stark to continue his search for a cure, to continue his fight for survival.

He watched as Mr. Stark’s eyes lit up with renewed hope, the way his fingers twitched with the need for research, for knowledge.

He watched the same way Romanov watched uncaring of the words yet concentrating on the results.

Justin hand, however, remained fixed on Mr. Stark’s own, on the calming beating of his pulse against his skin and the continuous remainder that the man had not died, would not die.

When Fury finally left, quoting more pressing matters, Justin noticed the way Mr. Stark’s eyes locked onto his own, the way his teeth sunk onto his bottom lip.

His cheeks colored, mirroring Mr. Stark’s.

But the older gentleman in the grey suit – Agent Coulson, he had introduced himself as - was already making his way into the kitchen with crate after crate of files and spare parts, all labeled Mr. Stark’s property.

They would surely have to talk about his outburst, about the way he had all but molested his benefactor.

Mr. Stark slowly reached to ruffle Justin’s long hair, his lips curled into a small, shy, kind smile.

“Later, J.C.,” he promised, his voice breaking.

Justin smiled back, unsure, standing and pulling the other man to his feet, not releasing his hand.

Mr. Stark let him, which spoke more than words could describe.

“Okay,” he promised, nodding.

Mr. Stark eyed Agent Coulson and Agent Romanov for a few moments, contemplative and sharp as usual.

“You are not SHIELD too, aren’t you J.C?” he asked, his shoulder bumping lightly against Justin’s side.

Justin laughed in relief, shaking his head.

“Not even if they paid me,” he replied. “And Stark Industries has better dental.”

He was rewarded by the pursing of Agent Romanov’s lips, Agent Coulson’s eye roll, and, best of all, Mr. Stark’s unrestrained laughter.

Justin knew, right then and there, that they would be okay.

Justin continued to hold Mr. Stark’s hand as they went through file after file of his late father’s, as he heard the man mutter equations under his breath and spoke science with JARVIS that left his brain in pain and his ears ringing.

He held him as they watched roll after roll of film of the man and weathered the nightmares and panic attacks such images brought Mr. Stark every night. He let Mr. Stark breath silent, almost unperceptively soft sobs onto his neck as he heard the older man’s – Mr. Stark’s own personal monster under the bed – words of love.

And listened as Mr. Stark raved against the man who had never expressed such love, such pride in his own son in life, only to hide those important – vital – messages in death, in a place Mr. Stark could have missed had it not being by Director Fury’s mercy – and how Mr. Stark hated owing anything to _that bastard Fury!_ , how he laughed when Justin proposed pranks in revenge – how he hated that man in the films then, how secretly happy he was that the cruel man could not be there to torture someone as kind as his son anymore.

He held Mr. Stark’s hand when the man’s eyes widened and he jumped from his seat, calling for Ms. Potts and rambling about the old model of Stark Expo to be delivered to the Manor, for JARVIS to prepare all simulations.

He held Mr. Stark’s hand when the holograms surrounded them in sparkles of the deepest blue, when JARVIS’ mechanical voice whispered in almost awe that they had, indeed, found the solution.

He held Mr. Stark’s hand when the man almost collapsed in relief against him, a tear rolling down his cheek.

He held his hand as the element was synthesized in the workshop, as the smell of burnt plaster and wood from the walls seemed to fall flat against the marvel that was Mr. Stark’s genius, as the new arc reactor was assembled and carefully installed in place of the old one – the poisonous one, the dangerous, horrible one that had almost taken Mr. Stark from him – and held on even when Mr. Stark seemed to surge with the energy of the new machine, wrapping his arms around the smaller man when he gasped for breath and choked on their shared relief.

He held Mr. Stark’s hand that night as they laid together in the workshop’s small bed, exhausted and sweaty but unable to move as they slept.

He held his hand, calming himself with the soothing beating of his pulse against his skin and the reassuring glow of the new core of the reactor even as he dreamt of the face of that hated man, of Howard Stark, lips bloodied against the steering wheel of a car, blue eyes wide as they stared at him, whispered his name over and over with words Justin couldn’t hear over the roaring of the fire exploding from the engine of his car.

Then, and only then, with the image vivid in his mind and Mr. Stark resting comfortably against his naked, scarred chest, did Justin release that calloused hand from his own.

***

As everything that seemed related to Mr. Stark, however, their newfound tranquility did not last as much as Justin had expected and their long awaited conversation had to be put on hold once more when ­Mr. Stark’s eyes landed on the screen of their television – and just when Justin had managed to have the man eat a whole meal too, damn it – and the expanse of the display by Hammer Tech at Stark Expo was revealed to the press.

A few barked orders and the blue prints of some machine were being displayed by JARVIS on the screen, side by side the new Hammer drones.

“Vanko…” Mr. Stark whispered in shock, his eyes wide for only a moment before they narrowed with determination and Justin found himself dashing after the smaller man, trying to catch up with him and his hurried explanation of the danger everyone at the Expo was in.

Of the danger Ms. Potts and Colonel Rhodes were in.

“I’m coming with you,” Justin said with determination, his metal fingers clenching and unclenching.

Mr. Stark stared at him for a moment, an eternity, before he shook his head, arms outstretched as his new arms slowly assembled around him, onto him.

“It’s too dangerous,” he argued.

Justin’s eyes narrowed to match his own.

“I’m your body guard,” he replied, and wasn’t it obvious? He was there to make sure Mr. Stark was safe, not to sit by the sidelines and watch as the man he devoted his life to run towards danger.

Mr. Stark scoffed.

“You and I know that’s a made up-“

Justin interrupted Mr. Stark’s rambling by pulling the man to him, cupping his face with both hands and crushing their mouths together, allowing his tongue to explore every single corner of the man’s mouth, every curve, every crevice.

Mr. Stark stared at him, dazed.

“I’m going,” Justin insisted.

Mr. Stark nodded at him, shoulders slumping even when the helmet came down onto his head, his arms wrapping tightly around Justin’s waist.

“Hold on tight, then,” he said, his voice distorted, mechanical, and still perfect to Justin.

Justin held for dear life, sure his metal hand was the only thing keeping him from falling onto the river as Mr. Stark sped towards the Expo, barking orders left and right – most likely aided by JARVIS and technology Justin had no hope of understanding – to Ms. Potts to evacuate the venue, to Agent Romanov and SHIELD to locate Vanko, to Mr. Hoggan – Mr. Stark’s former bodyguard, now Ms. Potts’ – to mobilize all Expo Security Personnel towards the exits.

As they landed he could hear Romanov’s confirmation of her arrival to Hammer Industries, as well as Colonel Rhodes’ panicked cries that the armor was not in his control just as he jumped to the side, allowing Iron Man to evade what seemed to be some sort of explosive device.

Ms. Potts and the security personnel hurried behind them to put as many people as possible to safety, her voice as panicked as Colonel Rhodes, as frantic as Mr. Stark’s.

“Mr. Stark!” Justin cried himself as he saw one of the drones aim towards Iron Man’s head, reaching with all his strength to stop the machine and effectively ripping its leg off its socket, forcing the machine to fall with a deafening shriek of broken metal and oil onto the floor.

“What the fu-“ Colonel Rhodes yelled in shock.

Mr. Stark laughed as he evaded yet another drone, flowing its head off with one of the propeller beans in his hands.

“Told you Justin was cool!” he mocked, his humor intact despite the severity of the situation, or maybe because of it. Justin felt himself smile as he balanced himself on a protruding beam, somersaulting on top of another drone, ready to rip it apart as well.

“Vanko is gone,” Agent Romanov’s voice warned over the communicators. “He’s most likely going towards you two.”

“No shit,” Mr. Stark snapped, just as him and Colonel Rhode took to the heavens, one chasing the other.

“I-I’m sorry! Tony! I can’t control it!” Colonel Rhodes continued to plead as their projectiles continued to fly. Justin did his best to jump over the head of one of the drones as it took flight as well, all the robots communicating with eachother to follow their supposed leader into battle.

He was not about to be left behind.

He would not leave Mr. Stark alone.

“Romanov,” he yelled into his own communicator.

“Case?” the woman said in surprise. “What are you doing there?”

“Guess!” he snapped, if he had ever disliked the woman for flirting with Mr. Stark, he was really starting to hate her disgruntled sense of humor. “Can you get the armor back from Vanko?”

“I’m trying,” Romanov snapped back, cursing under her breath in a language Justin recognized as Russian. “What happened to Stark and Rhodes?”

“They are chasing eachother, I’m following on one of the drones!” he replied, eyes narrowed against the smoke and the wind. “They are right behind them.”

“Almost got it,” Romanov assured, the clicking of the keys against her fingers loud on Justin’s ear.

“Almost is not enough…” he growled, holding as hard as he could, bending the drone’s metal head as he flew with it towards Mr. Stark. “They are almost on top of Mr. Stark!”

A moment of silence followed, a second, a minute, an hour, Justin wasn’t sure, but then Romanov’s voice crowed with victory and Colonel Rhodes’ voice echoed her in relief.

“Mr. Stark!” Justin called ripping the head of the drone that had flown him, jumping from it before he could crash onto the ground and watching in awe as both Iron Man and War Machine unloaded their whole arsenal onto the machines in an inferno of explosions, spilling oil and sparks of metal against metal.

It was like nothing Justin had ever seen before.

“Rodhey, J.C. I need you two to duck,” Mr. Stark warned, his voice urgent.

“What?” Colonel Rhodes asked, confused.

“DOWN!” Mr. Stark yelled.

Justin wanted to protest, he was doing fine on his own, had been doing fine protecting Mr. Stark as much as he could and was not about to lay down when-

Colonel Rhodes grabbed him by the waist, pushing him onto the ground and covering his exposed body with his armor as gently as he could right before a beam of the purest red light pierced the sky and disappeared, destroying everything in its path.

Justin watched in awe as Mr. Stark finally got rid of all the remaining drones in a single blow, his metallic hands smoking hot red as they dropped the partially melted laser onto the pond.

Colonel Rhodes helped Justin up, his focus still on Mr. Stark and the gigantic piece of armor suddenly landing before them, faceplate splitting to reveal the face of an older, scarred man smiling sarcastically down at the three of them.

“Good to be back,” the man said, Russian accent thick.

“Oh,” Colonel Rhodes hissed. “This ain’t gonna be good…”

The man, Vanko, seemed amused by their banter, more so when Colonel Rhodes tried to attack him with the so-called ‘ex-wife’ and failed miserably.

In fact, Justin noticed, all of the weapons at Mr. Stark’s and Colonel Rhodes’ disposal seemed to be ineffective against Vanko’s powerful suit, the man easily throwing the Iron Man suit around like a rag doll and stepping onto the War Machine without so much as breaking into a sweat.

Justin felt his heart drop when he noticed the way Vanko’s electric whips seemed to easily pierce Mr. Stark’s armor, the way the circuitry was slowly being exposed, much to the older man’s pleasure.

Justin couldn’t stand it, the thought of losing Mr. Stark after everything they had gone through, of letting that monster of a man take away his life…

No.

Justin would protect Mr. Stark with everything he had.

With a roar of pure rage, Justin launched himself at the armor and Vanko, metal arm at the ready to rip the man’s head off his shoulders or die trying if it meant it gave Mr. Stark enough chance to get away.

Vanko saw him and his eyes widened for a moment, shock evident in every pore of his face before he reacted, releasing his captive Colonel Rhodes and reaching with his whip to wrap around Justin’s arm in a display of power and heat that seemed to sear Justin whole.

“Justin!” Mr. Stark yelled, struggling.

Justin ignored Mr. Stark’s cry, determined to be of use, despite the agony coursing through him he wrapped his metal hand tight around the whip holding him and pulled the cord taunt, his strength slowly, ever so slowly, making Vanko lose his balance and thus, his advantage.

Mr. Stark seemed to shake himself for a moment, determination and steel back into his voice as he spoke once more.

“Rhodes, put your hand up!” he ordered, raising his own hand and letting the palm of his gauntlet light up, the mechanical whirring of the suit deafeningly loud.

“That’s your great idea?” Colonel Rhodes snapped, doubtful and yet mimicked Mr. Stark’s stance, his own hand whirring and bright.

“Just shoot when I say so!” Mr. Stark snapped, the light getting brighter by the minute.

Vanko seemed to realize what was happening because he started pulling on the whip on Justin’s hand, trying to free himself. He locked gazes with Justin, his voice rough and raspy snapping in rapid Russian.

Justin ignored him, holding as tight as he could.

“NOW!” Mr. Stark yelled, releasing the energy that, combined with Colonel Rhodes’ created an explosion so powerful, so incredibly bright that propelled Justin from his feet and onto his back.

 The roar of the explosion deafened Justin, the light of the beams blinded him.

Vanko’s words echoed in his head.

_‘Release me, Asset!’_

He knew that name, it was _his_ name!

Vanko knew his name?

There was very little time to think about it, however, as the exhaustion, the searing pain still running through his spine and a knock on the back were finally enough.

Justin lost consciousness.

***

He woke up in an unfamiliar white room that smelled of disinfectant and decay at the same time, his head swam with a fog that seemed to cover his every thought.

He squinted against the unnatural white light and instantly felt panic at the unfamiliarity of his surroundings.

A small, calloused hand grasped his own.

Justin opened his eyes…

… and allowed himself to relax.

“Hey,” Mr. Stark whispered, his fingers carefully pulling Justin’s hair behind his ear.

“Hey,” Justin replied, trying to smile but wincing when the movement pulled onto the scabs of his split upper lip. “Are you okay?”

Mr. Stark chuckled, shaking his head.

“Seriously?” he asked, the fingers in Justin’s hair reaching to pull at his earlobe playfully.

Justin chuckled.

Mr. Stark sobered, however, his eyes solemn, his shoulders slumping.

“What you did…” he said, a frown marring his face. “It was really stupid.”

Justin shrugged his shoulders, hissing at the stitches he could feel at his side.

“I was trying to protect you…” he reasoned.

“I have a suit of armor,” Mr. Star argued, immediately, frame tight.

“I am your bodyguard, and besides…” Justin argued back, shaking his head. “Wasn’t gonna let that asshole hurt you before we had our talk.”

Mr. Stark’s shoulders shook with repressed laughter, his eyes light, his smile sweet.

He was so beautiful right then and there.

Holding his side with his hand – back to one hand, it seemed, nothing new under the sun – he leaned forwards, capturing Mr. Stark’s lips with his own, ignoring the sting of pain when the cut on his lip protested, ignoring the way Ms. Potts yelled at the two of them for their irresponsibility, ignoring how Colonel Rhodes peeked into the room and groaned that Tony should stop doing that because he had to apologize and all their slobbering was only gonna make it more awkward.

None of that mattered, not to Justin.

The only thing that mattered to him, right at that moment, was that Mr. Stark was kissing him back, caressing his hurt lip with his warm tongue, carding those fingers that Justin loved so much through his hair and, much to Justin’s delight, reciprocating all the passion, all the desire back to the other man.

Justin sank into his pillow with relief.

Mr. Stark grinned at him, his face still bruised and no less perfect.

“No talking necessary, me thinks,” he said playfully, resting his forehead on Justin’s and closing his eyes, enjoying their closeness, breathing in his scent.

Justin felt that he could stay like this forever.

Mr. Stark’s grin widened.

“Fury’s outside,” he whispered against Justin’s lips. “He wants to talk to you about his Avengers Initiative, which, if you ask me is a really lame project and he should be ashamed of himself if he thinks you are gonna dump me for his secret boy band.”

Justin laughed.

“You are just sore because you are not invited, Stark,” Fury’s voice called from the outside, the growl in his voice expressing clearly his lack of patience.

“You still want me to consult, Nick, don’t deny how much you want me!” Mr. Stark called back, his smile widening when he could hear Fury curse under his breath.

Justin watched the dimples of Mr. Stark’s face, the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he was genuinely happy, the feel of his fingers calloused and burnt against his skin as he ran them gently against his neck.

“He can ask all he wants,” he said finally, nose bumping against Mr. Stark’s. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Justin closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of being enveloped by all the light that was Anthony Stark, the man that had pulled him from the void he had been in and had given him a life, purpose, _a name._

There were still unanswered questions: Who trained him? Who wielded him before he came to be next to Mr. Stark? Were those people still around?

Was the small boy with the blue eyes and the wheezing breath around as well?

Why had Vanko called him ‘Asset’ and what kind of connection his older self had with the man.

Colonel Rhodes peeked into the room again, theatrically gagging as he watched them.

Ms. Potts loudly whacked him on the back of the head with her hand.

Mr. Stark laughed, beaming as bright as the sun.

Justin decided that all those questions could wait.


End file.
